


Reciprocal Lessons

by DameRuth



Series: Flowers [24]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Ten and Jack making each other better people the way I wish they'd been able to in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24791026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameRuth/pseuds/DameRuth
Summary: The Doctor has been here before, but some lessons bear repeating, for everyone involved.[Continuing the Teaspoon imports, originally posted 2008.12.01.]
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Jack Harkness
Series: Flowers [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/14017
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Reciprocal Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [Winter Companions](http://community.livejournal.com/wintercompanion/) ["Enemies" challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/wintercompanion/tag/challenge:+enemies) on LJ, reposted here now the challenge is closed. Plays a little loosely with the theme, but the mods let it stand, so . . .
> 
> More human/Time Lord navel-gazing, of a sort, perfect for both "Flowers" and Winter Companions.

Jack didn’t give the Doctor much warning; one minute he was he was glaring at their bound and helpless prisoners, the next he’d drawn his pistol and was taking aim.  
  
“Don’t!” the Doctor cried, and it didn’t quite come out as the command he intended. He caught Jack’s wrist before the barrel of the pistol was completely level, only his slightly greater Time Lord speed allowing him to be successful.  
  
Jack turned his head to look at him. His eyes were blank, the blue of them pale and distant. Soldier’s eyes. Predator’s eyes. Human eyes.  
  
“You saw,” Jack said, voice as empty as his eyes. “How can we let them live after that?”  
  
The Doctor managed to keep his gaze steady, locked on Jack’s. That intangible contact was what was kept Jack in check, he knew, far more than the hand on his wrist.  
  
“Because we’re better than them,” the Doctor told him, his tone level and certain.  
  
They’d come upon a scene of horror and torture, and something in Jack had snapped. What had been a covert reconnaissance mission exploded into a full-out attack, leaving the Doctor no choice but to follow along once their cover was blown. Not that he disagreed with Jack's motives. He'd been every bit as outraged, and would have intervened just as surely if he'd been on his own -- only with less of a head-on charge. Fortunately they’d had the advantage of surprise.  
  
Jack’s lip curled slightly at the Doctor's clichéd statement, revealing white, even teeth, canines slightly longer than the rest. The pattern mimicked the Doctor’s own dentition, thanks to parallel evolution, but he reminded himself that not too many generations ago, relatively speaking, Jack’s ancestors had had fangs.  
  
“A clean kill is mercy, compared to what they were doing,” Jack said. Behind his blank facade, the Doctor saw hidden pain and shame fuelling the killing rage, well beyond Jack’s conscious control. Jack wasn’t just reacting to the current moment, but to his past and the dark things buried in his own heart, which made this situation more volatile still.  
  
He kept his grip on Jack’s wrist light, not exerting his greater strength; as a last resort he could try to overpower Jack, but that would break the unspoken pact of trust between them. Also, if he was being honest with himself, the Doctor had to admit the attempt might not necessarily succeed. There were more factors to consider than sheer strength: Jack had decades of training and experience on his side, not to mention millions of years of primate heritage, and fighting came naturally to him.  
  
The Doctor had learned _that_ lesson back when Jack first initiated a bit of cheerful bedroom tussling. It was an affectionate regression to the instinctive juvenile play-fighting common in predatory and semi-predatory creatures; the Doctor didn't share those instincts but he understood them and had been charmed by the gesture. He'd responded gamely, figuring he’d go easy on Jack for a bit and then either let him win or not, depending the whim of the moment.  
  
It had been a shock to end up flipped prone in three seconds flat, with both wrists clamped behind his back by one broad, warm human hand, his elbows bent at an angle that wasn’t painful, but which kept him from exerting his superior strength . . . while Jack used his other hand to prove that he’d been mapping the Doctor’s somatic responses very carefully indeed. Embarrassing as it was, even a Time Lord had his ticklish spots. The Doctor still winced a little when he thought of the undignified squeaks his human lover had managed to wring from him.  
  
That had been play. This was not.  
  
“A wise man once told me that deciding who lives and who dies doesn’t make you a hero, it makes you a monster,” the Doctor paraphrased, remembering Mr. Copper’s kindly wisdom, so different from Jack’s raw ferocity. Both impulses wrapped up in the same species, in the same individual, even; he’d seen Jack show astonishing mercy and compassion. If only he could hit the triggers to remind him . . .  
  
Jack blinked and looked down, breaking the gaze, acknowledging the Doctor’s words -- and his dominance. It wasn’t often, anymore, that that level of their relationship showed itself, but it was still there. The Doctor didn’t relax; he had his first toehold, but it wasn’t enough to completely defuse the situation.  
  
Jack’s gaze flicked back to the bound prisoners, who were watching the little drama before them in silent terror; their lives still hung by a thread, and they knew it. Human muscles tensed again, and the Doctor, sensitized to Jack’s biochemistry, could taste the fresh bitter-metallic wave of volatilized adrenaline and anger.  
  
"Maybe heroism is overrated," Jack growled.  
  
The upwards movement of Jack’s pistol began again, a spasmodic twitch of muscles, but the Doctor held firm, pressing down without tightening his grip, daring to exert physical control now that he had the acknowledged initiative.  
  
“Jack,” he said, in a tone similar to one he’d once used while standing outside a reactor door, but gentled around the edges.  
  
Jack shivered, the tendons of his wrist working as he tightened his grip on the pistol . . . then he let out a long breath and his arm dropped of its own volition. His scent shifted, anger draining from him, easing the tension of the moment.  
  
So different, humans. They killed most easily in the heat of emotion, unlike Time Lords, who typically killed as a matter of cold necessity, with no more feeling than a gardener deadheading flowers -- not that either species was incapable of the other's sins, as the Doctor knew too well. Ironically, it had taken being in the company of this violent, younger race to teach the Doctor true compassion and make him realize that cold killing was no better than hot. The end result was the same.  
  
He'd been here before, sometimes with the gun in his own hand -- most recently in a bunker underground, long ago and far away, with a lone Dalek in his sights. Then, it had been a human who stopped him; now that balance had shifted the other direction. Another of Time's circles, closing and renewing, offering symmetry and meaning: old stories changed and made new again for the creatures that lived them, for as long as the Universe existed. Even Jack, fixed point that he was, took part in the dance; the Doctor could see that now.  
  
He slid his hand down Jack’s wrist, fingers working between Jack’s, making a silent request. Just as silently, Jack yielded, allowing the Doctor to ease the pistol from his hand. Without looking, the Doctor set the safety and slipped the weapon back in its holster at Jack's hip.  
  
“How do you do that to me?” Jack asked with a faint edge of returning humor, locking gazes again, but in affection rather than conflict. He ignored their unsavory audience as if they’d ceased to exist.  
  
The Doctor smiled slightly, letting his voice go warm and low. “By taking advantage of what I see in you.”  
  
Jack arched his eyebrows, rebuilding normality, easing himself out of a killer’s mindset. “What do you see?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.  
  
The Doctor rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder, at the angle of the other man’s neck, letting his fingers brush the hot, downy-soft skin just above Jack's shirt collar. A strange setting for a shared moment of tenderness, but between them it felt right and normal.  
  
“That you _are_ better than that. It’s part of what makes you a hero -- and my friend, instead of my enemy.” He tilted his head slightly on the last word, in the direction of their prisoners, inviting comparison.  
  
Jack’s expression stayed one of neutral amusement for the most part, but the Doctor saw the words sink in, going deep.  
  
"It's all your doing," Jack said, conman's mask dropped for a moment, every word the simple truth. "Like I say, I've learned from the best."  
  
"It's a reciprocal lesson," the Doctor said, smiling with greater warmth. "Let's keep teaching it to each other, shall we?" He gave the back of Jack's neck a light, playful slap to end the conversation.  
  
"As often as we need to," Jack agreed, and they separated to finish the last tasks that remained.

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=27434>


End file.
